


I’m not a saint but I could be if I tried

by xueyang



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, This is ongoing lmao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 15:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15866376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xueyang/pseuds/xueyang
Summary: This man could not have killed so many, he almost looked like he had never really seen a true war let alone murdered so much





	I’m not a saint but I could be if I tried

Gilgamesh wakes to darkness, a frown adorning his face once he realizes it’s only just barely near midnight. No moonlight shines through windows and no light filters in through the cracks of his bedroom door.  _ How ridiculously dull _ . 

 

Swinging his legs over the side of his bed, he pulls himself into a sitting position, blinking lazily into the darkness.  _ Gods, he doesn’t want to get up _ . Even Ishtar would avoid coming close to his palace so early (or late?) as this - he wasn’t much of an early morning… _ conversationalist _ . Wiping the sand from the corners of his eyes, he huffs a small groan.  _ Damn the gods _ .

 

Convincing himself that there was a reason for the sudden disruption to his rest, he stood up, only stumbling slightly on the slick floors of Chaldea’s  _ lovely _ bedrooms. If he could, he would tear out each tile and replace it with one that would not cause him to slip and trip after each step. 

 

With a quiet snap of his fingers, a few candles around his room lit up with dancing fire, casting the dark room in an eerie glow but giving him enough light to find his way to the door without much difficulty. Each candle held a different color of fire, each representing an emotion - blue for sadness, red for love, green for envy and yellow for happiness. He only kept four of the enchanted candles and they rested in the corners of his room, solitary in their burn. To display the rest would only clutter his temporary home further, so his four favorite sat out and alone, lighting at his command.

 

Stepping over small piles of robes and cloth, he picked his way to the entrance of his room, casting only a glance back to his bed at his forgotten shirt and headpiece. A moment of hesitation and a small frown flitted over his face before he whisked away his worries, simply grabbing the rings that sat on the table next to him. He didn’t need proper clothing -  _ it was too late for anyone to be up anyway  _ \- and his night pants would be just fine if he did encounter anyone. If that wretched mage showed up he would have no protection, but  **fuck** if he was going to dress up just for a midnight stroll.  _ If that Lev man showed his face he’d tell him promptly to eat his ass _ .

 

Twisting his rings on, he contemplates on where his stroll would take him, before quickly deciding on the one place he enjoyed going to the most. It was a medium sized area, filled with foreign plants and food that held healing properties - or doubled as poison in the right conditions - and the wall to the front was completely covered in a heavy duty glass, allowing the visitors to see into the snow caps of the mountains they were nestled in. He loved this place because it was  _ quiet _ , away from the children and howling dogs and the sound of their master screaming when Kiyohime lights her skirt on fire  **again** . 

 

Quietly he pushes his door open, careful not to make too much noise lest he wake up Ozymandias who rooms just next to him, and steps out into the cold air of the B hallway. Closing his door, he tilts his head to the side, listening for any sign that the Pharaoh had awoken with the sounds of his heavy door shutting. Silence greets him and he lets out a sigh of relief - he didn’t want to have to explain himself to his fellow king as to why he couldn’t sleep.

 

A small pang of hesitation tugs at his chest, but he chooses to ignore it, beginning the path to the garden area. The hallways were dark and silent, completely different from the normal bustling during the day, and small lights adjusted to fit smoothly into the floor blink awake as he saunters past.  _ Perhaps he should stay up later to take advantage of this quiet _ .

 

Gently, he places the tips of his fingers against the wall to his right, dragging them lightly against the surface as he walked. With just this touch, he was able to check in on the servants within the rooms, making sure they were asleep or at least  _ there _ in Assassin Emiya’s case.

 

_ Asleep. Asleep. Asleep. Showering. Asleep. Asleep. Writing. Asleep. Wait-. _

 

_ Writing? _

 

Stopping in his tracks, he turns back to look at the door he just passed. Jeanne Alter’s room, a powerful Avenger with a nasty hate for a certain god Gilgamesh  _ still _ didn’t know the name of. Slowly, he walks back, placing his palm flat against the door  _ just to make sure _ . Sure enough, light scratches and the sound of an ink pen being dipped filled his ears and with a scowl he begins to reach for the doorknob.  _ She’s not even literate what is she doing-. _

 

A sound of a light sob and then a groan of frustration filters through the door, causing him to hesitate in his interruption.  **Fuck** . Curling his fingers into a fist, he turns around and walks the rest of the way to the garden briskly.  _ She must be teaching herself _ . A small feeling of guilt lingers around his chest, curling uncomfortably around his heart. He decides he's lucky that he didn’t open the door and dismisses the feeling with a quiet cough.

 

Arriving at the metal doors that guarded the garden area, he ponders the possibility of another servant finding refuge in the quiet space. Chuckling to himself, he shoos the thought away. No one enjoyed the company of the garden and plant life anymore - everyone was too busy fighting for their lives.

 

With a practiced flourish, he places his right hand against the door scanner, grinning when he hears the beep of approval, before stepping inside. The shift from the frigid hallway to the warm garden never fails to make him shiver, and he quickly tucks his hands in his pockets. Closing his eyes, he breathes in deeply, taking in the different scents of flowers and weeds that spill off tables and crawl up the walls in their overgrown state, decorating the pure white with greens and purples. With a muted hiss, the door shuts behind him, locking him in again as it always did.

 

_ Clink _ .

 

His eyes open at the sound, eyelashes fluttering in surprise as he turns toward the disruptance. A young man sits against the wall not far from him, eyes closed and breathing slow as small fairy-like creatures stand around him, looking up at him with wondering gazes. Another  _ clink _ ing sound comes from that direction, and with a silent laugh he realizes the creatures are trying to pick up one of the man’s weapons - a beautiful golden lance.

 

_ Ah, a Lancer class _ .

 

Carefully, he steps towards the man, trying to be as quiet as possible. One of the pixies glance up at him, blink, and then go back to staring at the Lancer, giggling behind a dainty hand. Are they enchanted or something? 

 

Stooping low, he nudges one of the creatures with his finger, causing her to look up at him with wide, purple eyes. He smiles softly at her before placing his hand flat against the ground, inviting her into his palm, and bashfully she relents, stepping into the middle of his hand with red cheeks. Slowly he raises his hand, mindful of his speed so as not to scare the little pixie, before placing her on his shoulder.

 

“Who is that man?” He mutters, eyes glued to the stranger. He’s beautiful - the set of his eyes, his droopy lips, the way his hair curls in just the right places, and the aura that surrounds him is so  _ calm _ \- he’s perfect in a way only a few mortals could compare.

 

“Diarmuid Ua Duibhne,” her voice filters into his ear as she leans in, cupping her hands around her mouth so she could be heard a little clearer. “the fae call him the most beautiful man in Celtic history.” A short giggle like the tinkling of bells erupts from her before she continues, leaning impossibly closer to his ear as if she was going to tell him a secret. “I heard his father was also from the Otherworld… it’s rumored that he could be a demigod!” A small hum of approval from the Caster and the pixie is jumping from his shoulder, flying down to join her friends in gossiping. 

 

_ Diarmuid Ua Duibhne _ . Gilgamesh ponders his name, flicking through the overwhelming knowledge he has gained about the history of the Celts.  _ A friend of the fae, on the run for 16 years, had five children… killed 10,000 armed men with only one companion to help. _ He stops at this, eyes narrowed into slits as a look of disbelief falls into place on his face. 

 

This man could  _ not _ have killed so many, he almost looked like he had never really seen a true war let alone murdered so  _ much _ . He shifts his weight from foot to foot with unease, his forehead creasing with his thoughts. It’s possible, though, and in retrospect Jack The Ripper  _ did _ manifest as a little child.

 

Finally, he steps towards the man, the pixies scattering every which way to allow him passage towards the Lancer. He’s slow so the creatures have enough time to get out of the way, but it still only takes a couple of seconds to get to the other man. Leaning down, he starts to raise his hand to touch the man’s shoulder, when a hand suddenly catches his wrist, putting gentle pressure on his veins.

 

“Who are you?” Diarmuid asks, golden eyes staring curiously up into Gilgamesh’s own. Gilgamesh falters at the question. He isn’t sure if it’s due to how late it was or how suddenly the lancer had moved, but he felt at a loss for words. The normal haughty greeting he deployed in situations such as this stuck on his tongue like paper and he grimaced, pulling his wrist away from the other’s grasp.

 

“Why do you care?” Gilgamesh sniffs, realizing a little too late that  _ gods he sounds  _ **_childish_ ** , and curls his lip in pretend disgust. He has to save face  _ somehow _ . Instead of the annoyed look he was hoping the other would send him, he simply smiles, uncrossing his legs and pulling himself up with the help of the wall behind him.

 

“I’m just curious.” The lancer replies, his smile fading to a polite grin. “Not many people come to the garden anymore.” He continues, gesturing towards the rows of dusty tables no one has bothered to clean. “Let alone at night.” With this, he finishes his explanation, turning around to pick up a pixie that has been prodding his back insistently. 

 

Gilgamesh frowns slightly, coughing quietly into his hand out of awkwardness.  _ This was not how his walk was supposed to go _ . “I’m Gilgamesh, Caster class.” He shifts his weight onto his right side before clearing his throat, trying to ignore the pixie who was now on the others shoulder and pretending to shoot Gilgamesh with  _ finger guns _ . Did he lose favor with them because he woke the lancer up?

 

A few seconds later, Diarmuid turns with a bright smile, a finger coming up to scratch gently at the pixie’s head. “Sorry about them.” A slight blush showed his embarrassment as he bowed toward Gilgamesh. “My name is Diarmuid, it was a pleasure to meet you.” An obvious nudge that he wanted to be alone. Taking that as his cue to leave, Gilgamesh turned on his heel and headed for the door, hand once again finding its place on the scanner.

 

“The pleasure was mine.” He quipped simply, not much emotion in his words, before disappearing through the door frame when the mechanism hissed to life and opened for him. With wide eyes, Diarmuid cleared his throat before sitting back down, leaning against the wall once more. He did not know there were  _ three _ versions of that ancient king.

 

Walking back to his room was fairly uneventful, and although he  _ did _ meet someone interesting, Gilgamesh was starting to regret following what his mind had told him. His body would have  _ much preferred _ staying in bed. With a quiet sigh, he buried himself under his covers, praying for an undisturbed sleep, before falling unconscious once more.

 

He woke to the sound of giggles, muffled laughter, and artificial light. Groaning, he opened one eye to find Nursery Rhyme sitting beside him on his bed, legs tucked neatly underneath her and hands clutching tightly to a bundle of roses she held near her chest. Jack was on the floor, peeking over the mattress and watching him carefully, obvious excitement coursing through her body and being released through incessant bouncing. He must’ve forgotten to lock the door.

 

“Rhyme,” Gilgamesh began, frowning at both the state of dryness that his mouth was in and the fact that Jack was starting to shake the bed, before continuing. “Why are you here?” He lets his eyes slide back shut after that, it’ll probably take a while to understand what she’ll say anyway.

 

“A man sent us to you!” Jack answers in record time, surprising Gilgamesh both with the lack of the man’s identity and the fact that Jack  **actually** spoke to him, and shakes the bed with vigor. “Wake up,  _ now _ !”

 

“Fuck.” Gilgamesh mutters into his pillow before finally lifting himself up, his arms shaking with the desire to just fall back into their place under his blankets. What time is it anyway? His gaze flickers to the clock beside his bed, and through his eyelashes he makes out the time of  _ twelve-thirty pm _ . Oh,  _ wonderful _ gods above just smite him  **_now_ ** \- Gudako is going to  _ kill _ him.

 

“Master is gone along with her song and soon you will follow like the birds called swallows!” Nursery Rhyme’s voice is light and airy and he has to control himself so he doesn’t scare her off. He knows Gudako is mad, he doesn’t need her to tell him.

 

“Yeah,” A breath is hissed through clenched teeth as he sits up, his legs tucked neatly under him just the same as Rhyme. “Yeah, I got that. Thanks.” Rhyme just giggles, fidgeting slightly and rustling his sheets in the process. 

 

“These are for you.” She says suddenly, simply, holding out the roses that were once held near her chest with a light blush. “He said your eyes are beautiful and that he’s sorry for last night.” Excitement tickles Rhyme’s tone and he takes the flowers from her hands before she accidentally crushes the stems, careful of the thorns. His mind draws a blank at first before the familiar image of Diarmuid Ua Duibhne shows itself, calm and composed then flustered and polite.

 

Gilgamesh grunts in reply, pursing his lips in thought as he stares at the flowers.  _ Light pink roses means sweetness, poetic romance, admiration and gentleness _ . Was thought put into this gift or did he simply pick these on a whim? When he looks up to thank the children, they’re gone. Gently, his fingers brush the velvety petals of the flowers before he decides to place them on his desk - he’ll just need a vase.

 

Maybe after Gudako is done with her rant she’ll help him.

 

Two days later he finds the Lancer again, although not in the best of situations. They were out training, picking up materials for Gudako’s favorite Berserkers, when Diarmuid found himself at a disadvantage. Berserkers weren’t particularly hard opponents for the Lancer, but he stupidly didn’t pace himself and he was starting to feel the consequences.

 

A slight stumble back and the enemy Chimera pounced, paw connecting hard with Diarmuid’s cheek and easily drawing blood. Diarmuid hissed, found his footing, and with a well aimed blow, threw the monster to the ground. His victory was short lived, though, as the animal struggled to its feet, growling and spitting, poised once again for an attack. Gilgamesh frowned and sent a glance towards their Master, silently asking if she was going to heal him. A grim face was all he needed to understand and he sighed heavily, fingers finding the bridge of his nose to squeeze gently. She wasn’t going to do anything. 

 

Diarmuid slipped into his defensive stance, his shoulders relaxed as he prepared for the inevitable attack and his likely retirement from the battle, when Gilgamesh placed a hand on his back, supplying him with just enough mana to get through the next attack. Gudako might not be able to heal him at the moment but he sure as hell can.

 

A hurried “ _ Thank you _ .” and Diarmuid unleashes his Noble Phantasm, taking their foe down easily. Gilgamesh watches until the last second before he’s pulled away by Gudako. “I didn’t tell you to heal him, idiot!” Gudako fussed, the tips of her ears colored red in frustration.

 

“It was the last enemy - we had nothing to lose.” Gilgamesh replied, looking back to where Diarmuid was and only finding the indents of his heels. With a sigh, he rubs his eyes and waits to be called back to Chaldea. Gudako’s obviously too annoyed to continue using him.

 

When he arrives, only sterile white walls greet him, and with a disappointed sigh he walks towards his room. He’s  _ tired _ already. Arguing with Gudako is draining and he used quite a bit of magic last battle now that he thinks of it. 

 

A nap is in order.

 

Sunlight greets him when he wakes and he quickly realizes he  _ slept _ rather than took a nap. A quick glance at the clock confirms it, a flashing nine thirty-nine am stares back at him, and he laughs quietly into his bedding. He’s almost glad he slept so long, from noon to nine in the morning… when he was alive he couldn’t have even possibly prayed for this lest he lose time and feel guilty.

 

With a light sigh, he sits up in his bed, fingers curling into the bedding in a silent search for a cold spot.  _ He should find Diarmuid today _ .

 

When he finally met up with the Lancer, it was in the dinner hall by the row of drinks Archer Emiya, Kiyohime, and Tamamo had set up. He was tipping the bottles back with one finger, glancing at the label, and then setting it back with a small frown and shake of his head. Perhaps he was looking with a specific type in mind? 

 

Gilgamesh saunters over with a neutral face on, eyeing the bottles Diarmuid has passed before looking up at the other. Diarmuid’s eyes were already on him, a quiet mirth dancing in his golden irises. 

 

“Hello.” The lancer muttered, a simple greeting but enough for Gilgamesh to be content. Tipping one of the wine bottles back towards himself and turning the label towards Gilgamesh, Diarmuid continued with playful curiosity. “Is this one any good?”

 

Gilgamesh scoffed, not even interested in looking at the label, before shaking his head. “Of course not. The only drinks that hold any value or have any type of worthy taste are within my gates.” Shifting his weight from his right foot to his left, he gestured simply to an empty area of the table in front of him, watching as one of his gold portals opened and his favorite bottle of wine gently found its place next to the other bottles. “This one is much better than any of these mongrels could conjure, I assure you, it won’t be a disappointment.”

 

Diarmuid hums at that, a pleased little noise that has Gilgamesh perk up a little, before he nods. “If you do not mind, I would love to taste one of these delicacies of yours.” Calloused fingers find the bottle’s neck, carefully lifting it. “The bottle itself is beautiful… like a calm sea during the night of a full moon.” Golden eyes get distant for a moment, as if he were suddenly in a different place at a different time, before they quickly refocused on Gilgamesh.

 

“Does this bring you some type of pain?” Gilgamesh’s voice is unusually soft, eyes searching Diarmuid’s face as if there were a hint to figure him out hidden within the creases of his eyelids. Diarmuid shakes his head, his throat closed so tight he knew if he opened his mouth he would choke, before looking out towards the kitchen. 

 

He didn’t know if he had the strength to continue matching those serpentine eyes.

 

There’s a few seconds of silence, Diarmuid considers making up an excuse to leave, before he feels the wine bottle being tugged from his hand. With a practiced flourish, Gilgamesh pours a generous amount of the ancient drink into a golden cup before holding it to Diarmuid. A silent offering. Diarmuid bows his head in thanks before taking the cup and throwing it back like a shot.

 

Gilgamesh chokes. And then there’s laughter.

 

“Have you never had wine before, young knight?” Gilgamesh’s laughter has practically turned to wheezes, and just this short sentence seemed like a chore to force out. Diarmuid blushes wildly, not entirely sure what he did wrong, before setting the cup down quickly.

 

“Have I done something ridiculous, Caster?” A hint of anxiety creeps into his voice and Gilgamesh is hit with a sudden need to  _ explain _ . His laughter dies within seconds, and he glances away quickly with the gnawing sensation of guilt rubbing at his side. A sense of urgency he had only felt in his youth after wronging his father resurfaced in that second.

 

“No, you have not.” Gilgamesh soothes the best he can, a gentle frown adorning his face in place of his amused smile. “But many people do not drink wine in one sip- in fact you are  _ supposed _ to slowly sip it. Throwing it back all at once doesn’t let you taste all the wonderful flavors, but you are not in the wrong.” Diarmuid still looks slightly confused, as if nobody had ever told him he was supposed to  _ taste _ the alcohol, but he nods anyway.

 

Polite as ever.

 

Diarmuid and Gilgamesh sit together with drinks in hand for a few more hours, a companionable silence existing between them as their Master and the other servants shuffled back and forth through the hall. It was calming, and for the most part quiet, so Gilgamesh was able to take time to study Diarmuid.

 

Two hours later, he found he liked the gentle slope of his eyelashes the best.

 

He also found that Diarmuid was a lightweight, because after his third cup of wine he was already leaning into Gilgamesh and mumbling nonsense about the ‘sea’ and ‘fionn’s wrath’. A confusing word choice to some, but one Gilgamesh needed only a little guesswork to figure out. ( _ In one of Diarmuid’s stories, Diarmuid had crossed a sea to the Otherworld for a woman some considered his lover. He had sacrificed his memory of her for her life, and left with an emptiness in his heart. While this is lesser known, Fionn’s wrath is as popular as Fionn himself. Gilgamesh couldn’t help but scowl when he saw the other man in the hallways. _ )

 

After the third time Diarmuid’s eyes closed for a short nap, Gilgamesh carefully picked him up, placing him over his shoulder like a sack. The Lancer’s room wasn’t far, but he wasn’t going to allow Diarmuid to stumble through the halls, especially with the kids toiling about. He had taught them and  _ they would absolutely take advantage of the drunk man’s state of mind _ . 

 

Once he finds Lancer’s room and puts him to bed, he lets out a great yawn. A second later, fear strikes his heart as familiar blackness begins to cloud his vision and he feels himself fall to the floor.


End file.
